


Meet In The Middle

by crimsoncomradeposts



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-02 12:08:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8666815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsoncomradeposts/pseuds/crimsoncomradeposts
Summary: New to the Sanctuary, the reader finds herself in the crosshairs of Negan himself. Find out just what makes you so special.





	1. The Start Of It All

**Author's Note:**

> This fic can also be found on my fanfiction page: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12234223/1/Meet-in-the-Middle

You had always been a sucker for autumn; the transitioning of greens to various shades of red, oranges, and yellows a thing of beauty and splendor in your eyes. But, much like the leaves you once grew to love so much, your love for the season withered to the ground along with the downfall of humanity. You simply couldn't see the beauty in a world full of despair. Not anymore. Maybe it was because you no longer had the luxury of simply halting your movements and observing the change of seasons. After all, any sort of distractions could mean the end of your life. It wasn't until he found you that your outlook began to shift to its former glory. It is here, amongst the stunted rows of corn in the makeshift garden of the Sanctuary that you stood, admiring the beauty of the sunset as it cast its golden glow upon leaves of crimson and amber.

"What you got good for me today," asks a familiar voice from behind you, the sound eliciting a jump in surprise. In the throws of your scare, your hand involuntarily presses down onto the tomato you had been holding, effectively squashing it into an unsalvageable mess. "Shame," the same voice speaks yet again, "could've used that for my sandwich."

Pivoting on the balls of your feet, you turn and face none other than Dwight, strands of flaxen hair hanging messily in front of the left half of his face. A single brow arches in a display of defiance at his words, and despite the mess remaining in your hands, you take a step closer to him.

"You've taken more than your fare share," you reply. It is the truth, after all, and though you're well aware of the consequences of back talking any of the Saviors, you feel more than comfortable doing it to Dwight. Deep down a portion of you feels for Dwight. It's hard to imagine going through what he's experienced only to come out the other end and not be turned into a hardened version of your former self. Then again, Dwight needn't be such a dick. He had Negan to carry that cross. That is, after all, how he keeps his hold on people here: fear and intimidation.

You'd been so wrapped up in your final thoughts that you'd barely managed to take in the abrupt widening of Dwight's eyes; a signal that either one or both of you are about to be in some deep shit.

"Well. Well. It looks like we've got ourselves a fuckin' problem here."

The familiar voice booms with certainty from behind you. You swear that in this moment your blood turns to ice, and an unwelcome shiver slides along your spine as you turn away from Dwight to face the source of the remark.

"Negan." It's the only word that you can muster in this exact moment, his name sounding more like a question rather than a statement. He isn't wearing the crimson scarf that he'd donned the first day you ever stepped foot into the Sanctuary, but his usual ensemble remains.

You can't help but notice the way his tongue sweeps across his bottom lip as he peers down at you; the look he gives is one of a parched man gazing upon a much needed glass of water. Or perhaps that's merely your feelings projected onto the man before you. You open your mouth to speak, but before any words are able to form, Negan is quick to cut you off.

"You botherin' this poor fuckin' girl, Dwight?"

Negan's eyes have long since bypassed you to stare down the man behind you. You can't see him, but you're certain that Dwight's head is shaking from side to side.

"No, sir. Just came to check on the crops. Makin' sure they're coming along as needed."

Liar, you think to yourself. And it's as if Negan is able to read your mind. His gaze now travels downward to where you stand, and reaching out one of his gloved hands, he takes one of your own and gingerly twists your wrist to face your palm upward. The evidence of the squished, now drying tomato still covers the entirety of your hand. He grunts to himself, the sound so faint that you initially think you've made the noise up in your own mind, just before he releases his hold on you.

"This looks like some wasted shit to me." You watch silently while Negan's gaze flickers between both you and Dwight, his neutral expression giving no sign as to what he's thinking. "You," he says, now bringing his full attention down to you. "I want you to come with me. Dwight, go find someone else to tend to the harvesting for today."

Negan wastes no time at all in turning his back to the two of you, leaving you to dart off after him once the initial shock of his command wears off. You're unsure of just where it is you're going, and though you're curious, you know better than to ask. You haven't been here long, maybe a couple of weeks maximum, but in the short amount of time that you've called the Sanctuary home you've had limited interaction with the head of the Saviors.

If you put in your time and effort and earn those points of yours, you'll be off my radar. Plain and simple.

Negan's words still ring clearly in your mind from the first day you stepped foot on safe soil. And it was plain and simple. You did as you were told, when you were told, and yet here you were, certain that you were walking one step at a time toward your death with your maker only feet ahead of you.


	2. The Truth Of The Matter

By the time you and Negan had arrived at his doorstep, the juice of the squished tomato had already begun to dry, coating your hand in a now cracking orange-red film. You'd done your best on the walk to Negan's humble abode to wipe off the dried juices on your jeans, but to no avail. Not only were you convinced that you were about to get the Lucille treatment, but now you'd wind up dying with a literal mess on your hands. What a goddamn way to go. You watch silently as Negan's hand extends outward to twist the doorknob just before pushing open the door, the motion revealing the space that belonged only to him. Upon first glance, your initial impression is that it's much smaller than you'd ever anticipated. Granted, it's still larger than the room you occupied, but small none the less. You're not entirely sure what you expected, though. It's not like the Sanctuary had a lot of room to work with to begin with; an old school provided everyone with a space for sleeping (though most doubled up two or three to a room), and there was the cafeteria which fit perfectly into the scheme of the Sanctuary.

By the time you manage to pull yourself out of your thoughts, you find that Negan has already bypassed you in order to step into his room. The soft tap of metal and the thud of wood can be heard as he sets Lucille down, propping the bat against one of the two seats at the forefront of the room. It's now that you feel as if you can catch a fleeting moment of relief. Perhaps he hadn't intended to bash your brains in after all. Your gaze lifts to find Negan staring back at you, a single brow raised and a look of amusement etched onto his features. He shrugs and simultaneously extends both arms outward at his sides.

"Well what the fuck are you waiting for, a formal invitation?" He lowers his arms back down to his sides just before heavily dropping down into one of the seats. "Get the fuck in here and close the goddamn door."

You do as your told, and quickly. There's no point in pissing off an already irritated Negan. The soles of your boots create a dull thud as you move further into the room, stopping only when you're near the chairs. Your brows crease with the inner confusion that you currently find yourself struggling with. Do you take a seat? Do you stand? Do you follow normal protocol and kneel? Shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, you await further instruction from the man seated in front of you. And, as if on cue, laughter is emitted from deep within Negan's chest, the sound filling the small expanse.

"Jesus Christ," he murmurs, the exclamation barely above that of a whisper. "Sit the fuck down and stop being so fucking awkward. Shit."

Yet again, doing as you're told, you take a seat in the chair beside the one in which Negan occupies currently. His hands come together, fingers forming a steeple as he carefully places them just before his lips which are now pursed in thought, and you can't help but wonder just what exactly is going through his mind. "Is he stealing?" Finally, the silence is broken, and for a moment you find yourself taken aback by his question. Your mouth opens, and for a fleeting moment you don't understand he question. Is who stealing? "Dwight." Negan states matter-of-factly. His next words, however, are spoken slowly and enunciated clearly in a way that says you best not make him repeat himself a third time. "Is he stealing?"

Oh, shit. You'd never been much for confrontation prior to the apocalypse, and not much has changed since then. As much as Dwight irritated you and, more often than not, left you wishing he'd meet the business end of Lucille, the thought of it actually happening made you physically sick.

"Sweetheart, if I have to ask you again, you're not going to enjoy the way in which I ask."

Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You're in for it now. You are so dead.

"Yes." And with that answer, you swear that you can feel the color draining from your face. You may not wind up on Negan's nad side by answering and answering honestly, but you most certainly may be responsible for a man's impending death. Swallowing harshly, you will your racing heart to quiet itself before it all but leaps clear out of your chest, and you watch as Negan nods in that thoughtful way of his. A minute passes, maybe two, and soon he lowers both arms so they drape over the sides of his chair.

"How long?"

Now that you've been honest about Dwight's sneakiness, you could lie about the length of time. It may spare him the chopping block but it sure as hell would put you on it should Negan find out. "I don't know. I've only been doing this for.."

"A month. Yeah, I know." He's quick to finish your statement, but you notice now that his tone comes across as introspective.

"But," you continue for the sake of Negan's satisfaction, "it's been going on that long."

It's now that a new found sense of panic hits you as the realization that you could be in some serious shit for not reporting it. It had been going on this long, and though Dwight was in Negan's crosshairs, it could soon be you too if he sees you as an accessory to the crime. Your hands wring together in a nervous gesture, your palms now clammy; the moisture is enough to now help to rub off the dried tomato juices. In the process of your mind changes the course of your thoughts, you'd lost track of what exactly Negan was doing. Abruptly, a wall of crimson blocks the view of your hands, and when your eyes focus, you realize that Negan has offered you his bandana.

"Clean that shit up and then get back to work. You and I will meet later."

And as quickly as he'd come to retrieve you, Negan dismisses you without so much as a second thought. Gripping his bandana in between both of your hands, you rise from your spot in his chair and quietly excuse yourself from his room. Going back to work was the last thing you wanted to do after that intense experience, you'd much prefer hugging the porcelain throne at this point. But, tucking the now dirty bandana into the back pocket of your jeans, you do as you always do, and you listen to Negan.


	3. The Delivery

Following your conversation with Negan, the remainder of your day had gone without incident. Much to your relief, Dwight had opted to stay away from the garden to which you tended, and you can’t help but wonder if Negan hadn’t had a talk with him too. Oh, to be a fly on that wall, you think to yourself as you pick another tomato from the vine, adding it to the growing pile of vegetables in your wicker basket. The kitchen would surely be over the moon with today’s selection of various produce, and the mere thought of anything other than canned beans has you practically salivating, but even as your mind wanders to the plethora of possibilities for tonight’s dinner, you can’t help but replay your most recent memory with him. Your hand moves absentmindedly to your back pocket where the maroon bandana remained since your encounter. Pulling it from its designated place, you pause your work for only a moment as you look down to the fabric that now rests in your palm weightlessly. It hadn’t struck you as odd until now, but as your thumb sweeps across the bandana thoughtfully, the realization hits you that you’d never seen another with this seemingly cherished bandana, not even one of his wives. Surely one of them, if not all, would cart it around like some trophy should they have ever been lucky enough to get their hands on it. And yet here you are, said prize in hand.

“Hey!”

A voice calls out, interrupting your train of thought, and looking up, you spot Arat approaching. Quickly, you pocket the bandana and straighten your posture as she strides across the grass to where you currently stand, gun strapped across her body as it so often is. Arat halts her movements only when she steps close enough to peer into the basket in front of you. You watch silently as she visually inspects the contents of the wicker basket, your eyes narrowing suspiciously whilst you wonder just what it is that she wants. You can’t say that Arat’s been a pain in your proverbial behind, but you two don’t always see eye to eye. While Simon is Negan’s right hand man, it’s plain to see that Arat strives to reach that status herself, and she does so at the expense of the other members of the Sanctuary.

“Looks good.” Finally breaking the silence between you two, she carries on with the one sided conversation. “Get that inside asap. Dinner’s getting started early.”

It isn’t until her head begins to lift in order to look at you again that your expression quickly switches from suspicion to neutrality. You nod your head once in acknowledgement of her order just before reaching down to retrieve the basket full of produce. “Sure thing,” you finally remark, the answer seemingly satisfying the woman standing before you. Mirroring your nod with one of her own, Arat soon turns to leave you behind with the remaining crops so that she can tend to other, unspecified, business.

Puffing out your cheeks, you blow out a breath of air just before turning to gather up the basket that rests on the hard Earth. With the produce now securely in tow, the basket now hanging heavily off of your forearm, you quickly vacate the rows of crops and make your way inside to the kitchen. Though the Sanctuary is far from a former hospital, the grungy scuffed white and green linoleum squares can’t help but pull your thoughts to a time when you’d been admitted to the emergency room for something undoubtedly stupid when you were younger. The walk to the kitchen, though short in its own right, gives you time to reminisce about days long since passed, and reminisce you most certainly do. From holidays with family, to sneaking out during the nights with friends that were once so closed to you, you can’t help but wonder where some of these people are, if they’re still lucky enough to be alive, that is. Then again, are you truly lucky to be around to see the horrors this new world has to offer? As you round the corner into the cafeteria, your mind shifts as well, this time rerouting your thoughts to the bandana in your back pocket. Shit. You would need to deliver that to Negan, and soon. Should someone catch you with that, they’d surely wonder what the hell is going on, not that anything was of course. Then again, there’s the matter of Dwight. If he so much as caught a whiff of the fact that you may be conspiring with Negan against him, well there’s no telling what he may do. He does hold a grudge over the whole iron to the face incident. Not that you can blame him for that.

“Is that fresh zucchini that I smell?” Jemma, the kitchen’s head “chef” as she likes to call herself, comes bounding towards you the moment that you appear within the cafeteria. Her smile is wide, almost Cheshire-like in nature, and you can’t help but find the expression contagious. Since your initial arrival to the Sanctuary, Jemma has been one of the few residents that had warmed up to you from day one, and you’ve been grateful for the friendship ever since. With a nod, you thrust your arm out forward, bearing the actual fruits (and vegetables) of your labor.

“Sure is,” you remark, now handing off the basket to Jemma. “Hey, could you do me a favor and have the team start to prep this today? I’ve got another errand to run, and well, you know how it is.” Though you trusted Jemma with your life, you sure as hell don’t want to let her in on the fact that you’ve been hanging on to one of Negan’s prized possessions. Jemma may be a great friend, but she’s not exactly known for keeping your deepest and darkest secrets. You watch as she lifts a single brow in silent question as to just what it is that you’re up to, but rather than verbalize her inquiry, she merely bobs her head in a nod.

“Yeah, sure thing. But hurry back, okay? You know how antsy the team gets when they’re even one hand short.”

You begin to backpedal, a smile forming in the process, and lift a hand to tap your index finger against the side of your nose; a signal of understanding that you and Jemma had developed long ago. Mirroring your smile with one of your own, she lifts her hand to tap her nose before turning to deliver the vegetables to the remainder of the kitchen. Once she has her back to you, you turn and dart off down the hall in search of the corridor that houses Negan’s quarters. Suddenly, it’s beginning to feel as if this bandana of his is burning a hole in your back pocket.


End file.
